


Familiar Faces

by Ghostinthehouse



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Gen, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21737191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostinthehouse/pseuds/Ghostinthehouse
Summary: Aziraphale paused on the town bridge, listening to the music that spilled from the entertainer's lyre. The song ended, and a deep voice requested an old, old tune.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

677 AD, Malmesbury, South-west England

Aziraphale paused on the town bridge, listening to the music that spilled from the entertainer's lyre. He was supposed to be blessing the monastery's abbot, a man named Aldhelm, but the abbey was a long pull up the hill from the river. The crowd parted a little, and he got a better view of the musician, only to find it was a monk who was taking every request thrown at him and playing it for the crowd.

Not just holy music either, the angel realised, as someone taunted the monk with a request for one of the tavern bawdy ballads about Lancelot and Guinevere. The man only smiled and launched into it, but to Aziraphale's eyes, a dusting of holiness already hung around him. Then he caught sight of the abbot's cross hanging around the monk's neck and relaxed. This must be the man he was sent to bless after all, so there would be no reprimand for hanging around and listening, even if the subject matter did rankle a little.

The song ended, and a deep voice asked for an old, old tune. Aziraphale hadn't heard it since Crowley had popularised it while playing blind bard for King Arthur himself. He settled to listen to the old memories, humming along too quietly for anyone to hear, and glanced over at the man who had requested it. A tall man, with wiry white hair above a high forehead, and a harsh, hawk-like face dominated by deep-set dark eyes and a great beak of a nose. The odd thing was, he looked familiar... _A chance resemblance,_ the angel told himself. _It's almost a century and a half since Arthur's court, it can't possibly be any of the humans you knew then._

The man glanced back at him, blinked in recognition himself, and looked again, frowning.

The expression was one Aziraphale had seen facing him across a game-board countless times. He murmured, startled, "Merriman?"

The frown only deepened, and he felt more than saw the man catch them both out of time before he replied, "Sir Aziraphale?"

"Uh, well, just Aziraphale these days, actually."

They stared at each other for another long breath, then spoke almost simultaneously, "What are you?"

Aziraphale smiled rather ruefully and laid his blessing on the monk while he thought. "I'm an angel," he admitted at last. "A Principality - that is a Guardian of humanity of a sort. I spread blessings and all that. And you?"

"An Old One. Part of the Circle. Also a Guardian of humanity - of a sort. I serve the Light that stands against the Dark."

"Perhaps we should rather discuss this at the tavern over a drink and a bite to eat?"

Merriman smiled and his bony face lit up for once as time flowed back around them. "An excellent idea. Lead on."


	2. Chapter 2

1977, Soho, London

Stepping into the bookshop, Will immediately understood what Merriman had meant by this place being "neutral territory". It felt something like a sanctuary, and something - but not quite - like standing in a church. A studied neutrality of sorts, enforced by some power neither of the Light nor the Dark.

A voice from deeper inside called, "We're not open!"

Merriman called back, "We're not here to buy!"

"Oh!" Feet pattered across the floor and the owner came into view. He was as white-haired as Merriman, but round where the Old One was angular, soft where Merriman was harsh. "Merriman," he said, a sweet smile lighting up his blue eyes, "it's been a while. What brings you here?"

"Aziraphale, this is Will Stanton, youngest of the Old Ones, who came into his power this Midwinter past. Will, this is Aziraphale, Mr Fell, owner of the shop, who is kind enough to store our more esoteric books for us."

Will said, "It's nice to meet you," and held out his hand.

"The pleasure is mine, my dear." Mr Fell took it and Will felt the steely strength and power underlying the soft plumpness of his manicured hand.

The two white-haired men then moved away, crossing the shop floor as they discussed which books might have the information Merriman was looking to refresh his memory of. The doorbell jangled, and Will turned to look, only to have a chill run down his spine. There, in the doorway, back turned to him, shaking out an umbrella, was a tall man dressed completely in black, with reddish hair just curling over his collar and a depth of power humming in the air. _Merriman!_ Will sent urgently, snatching them out of time. _Black Rider..._

The man turned, and scowled around dark glasses. "Do you _mind_? I was using that minute." He snapped his fingers to restart time, rather than spread his hands as the Rider had, and then slid his glasses down just long enough for Will to catch a glimpse of yellow eyes rather than the Rider's blue eyes.

Merriman glanced over at them. "Ah, Crowley. My apologies for any delay, I won't keep him long." _Will_ , he added silently, _Crowley is not our battle to fight_. His words echoed sharply in Will's head, reminding him of John Smith saying almost exactly the same thing about the vicar facing the Dark.

Will drew a breath, and said, trying for neutrality but hitting something sharper-edged, "My apologies, Mr Crowley. I mistook you for someone else."

"Just Crowley," the man said just as sharply. "Besides, Mitothin hasn't a stylish bone in his body, so he goes around copycatting me instead. Except for the horse. Never did get along with horses." He beckoned Will towards a pair of chairs and an old sofa. "Come along, gramarye boy, you might as well wait in comfort. They're going to be a while."


	3. Chapter 3

4 years Post-armageddon, Soho, London.

"You don't understand!" The words came out of Adam's mouth in a thin, rising, wail that sounded more like a fretful toddler than the teenager pacing the back room of the bookshop. "The power, and the voices...everything's coming back again!"

"Power does that," a deep, welsh-accented, voice said.

Angel, demon, and antichrist whipped round, startled, to see a man standing by the shop doorway, dressed in black trousers and a sea-blue shirt. Dark glasses showed stark against a pale face and white hair as he turned his head, scanning each of them in turn, and settled on Aziraphale.

He said, "Will Stanton sent me, as I was in the area anyway. He said that this rising was more my thing than his, and I'd be needed here," and raised an eyebrow as white as his hair.

Aziraphale tilted his head, considering, and then waved a hand to invite the man into the back room. Crowley hissed wordlessly, then grudgingly nodded. The man took a seat, reached up, and removed his dark glasses. His eyes were as golden as Crowley's, but round-pupilled like an owl's rather than slitted like a snake's.

"My name," he said, leaning forward, eyes now fixed on Adam, "is Bran Davies. When I was eleven, I discovered that the man who raised me was not the man who sired me, and that there was - power - in me from my birth father. When everything was over, I was given a choice, and I turned away from the man who sired me to stay with the man who raised me. My real father, the father of my heart, if you will. Those that gave me the choice thought that it would mean giving up my power and my memories." A wry smile crooked his mouth. "But both came back in the end. Does that sound at all familiar to you?"

Blue eyes met yellow ones. Adam gave a short, choppy, nod and finally dropped into a chair. "Yeah. Kinda. But what do you _do_ about it?"

"Me? Channel it. Power - our sort, not the _dewin_ sort - is like water in a well, you can drain it dry, but it gradually refills given time and the right conditions. If you don't give it an outlet to flow down, it'll eventually grow to the point that it overflows the container - you - and makes its own outlet. Which is," his mouth twisted a little and he leaned back for the first time, "rarely a good thing."

Adam looked down. "I don't want to be looked at like I'm a fr-" He cut himself off as the man chuckled, sharp and a touch bitter.

"I can't help you with that. I've never had a choice about it." His gesture took in his eyes and bleached colouring.

Off to the side, Crowley hissed, a sharp inhale of air.

Bran looked over at him. "You neither, I imagine," he added softly.

Crowley grimaced and shoved his own dark glasses further up his nose.

Adam said with bitterness of his own, "I'm the Antichrist, Spawn of Satan. He's _not my dad_. I don't _want_ to be like him."

"So don't be like him. Be you." Bran leaned forward again, "I apologise if I'm assuming in this - I don't know what your powers are. I doubt they're like mine."

Aziraphale twisted his ring on his finger. "He shapes reality around him. Would you like some tea?"

Bran said, politely, "I would love some, thank you."

At the same time, Adam sighed and deflated, sagging into his chair. "I was supposed to end the world and lead his armies to victory. I refused. Things just - always work out how I want them to be."

Bran gave him a long considering look and then said, "I am the Pendragon, the son of King Arthur. I was supposed to fight at his side to save the world. I gave up my sword after. I won't get that back, but - leadership I know." He didn't move, but for just a moment, there was an aura of impossibly high rank around him, the kind of person who could command instant obedience. Then it vanished again, and he was just an odd man once more. "Decide what you want, what you really, really want, and make it so. Do you want the flood defenses to hold when it rains? Do you want the weather to clear enough that farmers can safely plant and harvest their crops rather than have them rot or burn in the fields? Do you want people to have lucky escapes from fire and flood, earthquake and volcano? Leadership can protect as well as destroy, give as well as take - if the leader chooses to."

"And what do _you_ do with your power?"

"I'm a musician. I sing, like one of the bards of old."

"Really? Could you..."

Bran laughed. "Any requests?"

Crowley sarcastically named a song he himself had sung for King Arthur, the same one that had brought Aziraphale and Merriman together.

Bran gave the demon a long, amused look and then drew in a breath. The ancient song rolled out into the bookshop, warm, rich, and deep, gathering his listeners up into memories of their own, and an assurance that all shall be well.

**Author's Note:**

> St Aldhelm, Abbot of Malmesbury and later Bishop of Sherbourne, really did sit on the town bridge and play for anyone. He also later wrote a book full of riddles (Aziraphale probably has a copy of it somewhere).


End file.
